The Lucky Percent
by fanfickeryay
Summary: Ron and April alone in the Parks office. This needs to exist out there in the world, and for the life of me, I couldn't find it.


It just dawned on me that this needed to exist, you guys. NO YOU DON'T HAVE TO THANK ME.

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**The Lucky Percent**

It was a normal day in the Parks Department of Pawnee City Hall. Leslie and the gang were out flapping their lips about this, that, or the other. Tom was trying to get laid. Ann was looking sweet and beautiful. You know the routine. But everyone was also being more layered and nuanced than all of that, which is why we love them, and this show.

Andy had run around the house naked on a failed bet the night before, so April left him at home that morning with a bowl of chicken soup. All fuzzy wuzzy and beardy, curled up in the bed. So innocent. Sweet, dumb Andy.

So it's just April and Ron in the office, know what I'm saying? A veritable fanfiction red flag. And Ron is just sitting in his office with his hot squarish man-forehead all wrinkled, fist under his chin, staring at his desk, thinking about Tammy 1 and Tammy 2. And about how satisfying it would feel to saw through his desk, straight in half, just for the hell of it. He could name the left half Desk 1 and the right half Desk 2.

But he's also thinking about America, children, because Ron loves his America. And he's reflecting on the straight talk the country was just given by Future President Romney. Or as Ron likes to think of him, the presidential running mate of the world's handsomest Libertarian hard-on. Ron likes the cut of that Paul Ryan's jib, that's all he's saying.

But the strangest thing is happening, for in Pawnee they say, Ron's heart is growing three sizes today. Because he suddenly realizes, children, that his beloved and terrible assistant, his dour, moody April in the next room—she is part of the 47%.

April. All young and poor. She does have some amount of inherited wealth, since her parents were paying her college tuition at some point. Which is admirable, because you know that means she comes from smart genes, since capitalism determines who is smart and who is poor. But she's also married to that dopey, sweet, poor-as-dirt Andy errybody loves.

Even Ron loves the dumb lug. The boy can toss a football. And hapless and poor as Andy may be, he possesses a number of assets from the Ron Swanson Pyramid of Greatness. The thick, impenetrable Torso (#23). Frequently, the Body Odor (#25). As demonstrated by his time spent living in the pit, a good amount of Self-Reliance (#13).

And then, of course, the Romantic Love (#19). Andy does indeed have the—

But April knocks and comes in the office. Ron's dear, childish, lazy, nigh-on useless assistant. In a navy button-down cardigan and a gray skirt. And quite suddenly, Ron finds himself . . . moved—in a manly and non-perspirational way—by his dark-and-mysterious acquaintance from the 47%. And for all of Andy's virtues, Ron Swanson possesses both Selfishness (#8) and Intensity (#22). In spades.

"Here's your donut box full of bacon, just like you asked," April monotones, holding the box low and loosely, looking bored. She glances at the ceiling. "Whatever."

"Come here and give it to me," says Ron.

April widens her eyes, momentarily snaps out of her revery of angst. Then she's back in it.

"Yes, _sir_," she mumbles sarcastically, dragging her feet as she slumps toward him, trying not to look like she totally just got a lady boner from his Frankness (#37: _Cut the B.S._).

At the side of his desk, she drops the box in front of him with one hand. Ron frowns, glares at her, holds her gaze for a moment too long. She tries not to squirm, not to give away the wettening of her down-there area.

"Open it," he says. She does, with the same lazy hand. Crisp slices of thick-cut bacon glisten beneath the midday fluorescents. April does not break Ron's gaze.

"Now bend down," he says more quietly, but just as intensely. "And smell it."

April scoops everything off the desk in one quick movement and mounts Ron's lap. He scoots back in his chair, surprised, struggling to maintain his Swansonian composure. April kisses him fiercely, feels his bristly moustache tickle her gums. She can see why Tammy 2 likes it so much. Why he drives her so physically crazy, to match her regular crazy.

Ron grips April's thighs beneath her skirt. He slips his hands up to massage her ass as she writhes on top of him. April unbuttons her cardigan and throws it behind her. Ron pushes her up and smothers his face into the cleavage of her white camisole. He slips one hand around to caress her breast through her shirt and the other around to gently massage her clit with his thick, dextrous thumb. She grips the sides of his sweet, musty, manly hair. She breathes it in.

He wants to lift her ass onto the desk, loosen his man pants, and thrust inside her until her dark, wide eyes bug out of her head. She wants to flip around, flatten her breasts to the tabletop, and have him spank her as he takes her from behind.

But all at once, Ron and April break away from each other. They stare into each other's eyes, shocked, still aroused, but suddenly aware of what they are doing. Her hands are still in his hair. His are wrapped gently, consolingly around her elbows.

"April," he says in his deep, clear, throaty Ron voice. There is a touch of sadness to it.

"No, you're right," she says. She gets off of him, turns around, and they straighten their clothes up for a moment. She turns back.

"I'll . . . be at my desk," she says. She tries to roll her eyes, to look nonchalant. Then she gives him a small, sad token April smile, and leaves.

Because how could they ever break the #1 spot on the Ron Swanson Pyramid of Greatness? _Honor: If you need it defined, you don't have it._


End file.
